On a stellar day when a shit load of free radicals were blown clear from ions of dust 900 million miles out there, relatively and/or depending, not that far considering convex contextual dimensions, cocky fig-8’s were spinning inside of roiled fig-8’s that revolved around bulbous fig-8’s that were slinking on planes outside of spiraling fig-8’s that took off and torqued to no beginning and no end. I knew because I was smiling all day. There were no distant edges from which to fall off and never come back. Fig -8’s, the most basic building blocks of the multiverse, were ruling with warmth and serenity big time. Stray links on earth had been secured between groin, hip, hamstring, spine. Buried treasure floated to a surface. No evidence of robots on a gray horizon. I was considering where I came from and digging here and now while it was happening.

The yang twin said, “What’s so funny?”

I said, “Not me. That’s what you always tell me.”

He said, “You’re laughing at something.”

“Or nothing.”

“Something’s funny.”

“As long as it’s not me.”

“Very funny.”

Breezeways in the Santa Cruz Mountains continue to be highly conducive to the conduction of prime fig-8’s despite interference from Silicon Valley, the San Andreas Fault, sub-prime shock waves, sub-divisions, weed whackers, helicopters, Porsches, and piercing screams. The odd shape that used to be good for swinging in trees still fulfills a purpose in transitional horticulture. As long, that is, as the beautiful birds remain aloft as net providers of music for inspirational ascending, a cornerstone of high rising consciousness that was, is, and forever will be. And yet as a concerned parent of the spawn of my loins, the teen twins, I am often forced against my questionable judgment to grovel like a worm at a lower elevation of dirt in order to come up with a clue.

The yin twin asked, “Do you know what this means?”

She placed square evidence in my face of a visual clash of quasi-cultures containing a subliminal product that caused my squinty eyeballs to grow hair and crackle and pop. She wanted whatever it was on display. I wanted whatever it was on display to go away.

I said, “No.”

She said, “Do you even know what you’re saying ‘no’ to?”

I reiterated, “No.”

She said, “So you don’t know.”

I said, “A classic win-win for my side.”

I knew the yin twin was no easy prey for the swarms of bipedal lemmings packaging disposable goods and services to lead our nubile youth astray. No lame marcher in lock-step had ever filled her pointed boots. She had served with bravery and spunk in the war against clueless human enablers of venal cats who murder beautiful birds, as well as in the role of trusted aide-de- camp in the struggle for freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles embraced by the Adult Use of Marijuana Act, AUMA, strictly upon entering adulthood of course, and surely deserved better. I knew it and she knew it. But, still.

“Try to see it my way,” I gratuitously added.

She warned, “Don’t think this is over.”

I did not think it. I did not doubt her. She had many coercive means at her disposal. Her brother, as a joker and wild card, upped the ante. He re-entered the arena loaded with a weapon containing a beat with an attitude he could dance to. The urge to jump up and fall down came to me packing a wallop. I cringed and he grinned.

“I give up.”

“Prove it.”

I said, “Follow me.”

I lured them with sweetened morsels, surfboards, and dirty dollar bills into the back seat of my car and hauled them down the mountain to the Pacific Ocean. And then I drove away. I had minor skirmishes to plan against the many enemies of freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles, a menace of robots, lackeys, murderers, scum, and thugs. There was sadly no time to be idyllically spent overlooking the edge of western civilization where a humpback whale was spewing more shit loads of foamy free radicals and prime fig-8’s. If I don’t construct adequate defenses to fortify my freedom against scoundrels and cads, who will be left to stand in the doorway and block the halls? The smile stayed stuck, however. That old funny feeling remained in place and felt swell. The other side was trying to deny my freedom. Denial leads to subjugation, internal bleeding, lesions, blame, and ultimately back to murder. Where better to bring the ignominy to a screeching halt than the edge of western civilization? That sounded like the tom-tom drum of another resounding win-win for my side. Where there is no beginning and end, as there is, free radicals will rule. What a bunch of losers those robots would soon turn out to be.

I was happy to find the Unpaid Internet Content Provider waiting for me at my door step, prepared to supply orderly subjects and predicates in support of the cause. He was happy to sit around and drink freshly brewed brown beer with a touch of cardamom and feign concentration on flourishes of oratory to be mouthed by Lt Guv Gav Newsom as long as the teen twins were not around to scorn and make fun of him in the flesh. Happiness does not make the world go round, but still.

I said, “I saw a humpback whale swimming at Rio Del Mar Beach.”

“Maybe I can work it into an empty paragraph as warm and fuzzy filler.”

“I don’t know how Lt Guv Gav feels politically about whales.”

“Probably in favor.”

“If I cared, I suppose could check.”

“Filler can be exciting, too.”

“I know Lt Guv Gav is pro-excitement.”

“It’s settled, then. Choose one. Deep or high?”

“Both/and.”

“You know loud techno-music is damaging to humpback whales.”

I said, “It looked pretty good swimming out there to me.”

Just as we were preparing to hit a productive groove, the robot who mops my floors, and prefers to be left alone to brood when the teen twins wantonly act out displays of disrespect for authoritarian commands and procedures, opted to come out of its shell to start kicking dust in my face. That left me with no alternative but to put it on a severe time-out in a closet. I know there’s a burgeoning robot liberation front out there that disapproves. I hear their loose talk of reprisals wherever I go. But, what the fuck. It’s not a question. I remain unafraid much of the time. No slurs from my enemies stick to me any better than most mud. And I know how to keep smiling for no reason. I have been understanding enough in my opinion to fill a carcinogenic vinyl jug with icky sweet wine. I’ve withstood fits of sneezing and itches. I know for a fact that my sneaky robot twitches to soulless techno-music to keep its lube warm. I can hear screws rattle late at night. Any robot who is not my subservient friend must be an enemy of my freedom. That’s the only conclusion left.

“We might need to come up with a snazzy new approach to the same old same old.”